


i would breathe water

by Amber



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Begging, Dirty Talk, Do Not Archive, Dubious Consent, M/M, Manipulative Relationship, Marriage, Minor Character Death, Non-Linear Narrative, Overstimulation, Panic Attacks, Poetry, Rimming, Spoilers, Surprise Kissing, Unrequited Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-28 21:56:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15058655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amber/pseuds/Amber
Summary: Martin gets lonely. (Post-106.)-"I could sacrifice you to my god, out on the water, sure, but Elias gets touchy about that sort of thing. No, someone like you? I'd much rather you joined us. 'Course, it isn't just signing a contract." He traces a finger around the rim of his mug. "We're a family.""So I'd be your little brother?" says Martin dubiously. He only has one couch, sits alongside Peter, turned a little towards him, trying not to think too much on how strange everything about this situation is. About how his heart is suddenly beating faster, loud in his ears."Oh, no," says Peter, quite calmly. "My husband."





	i would breathe water

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fairbanks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairbanks/gifts).



> Peter Lukas' characterisation is borrowed wholesale from Hal, to whom this fic is dedicated. Sorry I ruined our cute ship, loser. 
> 
> Standard disclaimer: Please don't link this to the creators. Please don't repost my fic on other websites. Transformative works or quotes with a link are fine and you don't need to tell me or ask permission (but I would love to know!)
> 
> For once, none of the italicized poetry is mine. Credit goes to: Frank O'Hara; William Wordsworth; Lewis Carroll; Pablo Neruda; Seamus Heaney; Oscar Wilde; H.D.; W. H. Auden; Neruda again; W. B. Yeats; James Joyce; the title is from Sylvia Plath's _Full Fathom Five_.
> 
> Set post MAG 106 - A Matter of Perspective. Beware falling spoilers. 
> 
> To avoid spoilers for the fic, content warnings with specifics are included in the end notes.

_I wanted to be sure to reach you;  
though my ship was on the way it got caught   
in some moorings. I am always tying up   
and then deciding to depart. In storms and   
at sunset, with the metallic coils of the tide   
around my fathomless arms, I am unable   
to understand the forms of my vanity   
or I am hard alee with my Polish rudder   
in my hand and the sun sinking. To   
you I offer my hull and the tattered cordage   
of my will. The terrible channels where   
the wind drives me against the brown lips   
of the reeds are not all behind me. Yet   
I trust the sanity of my vessel; and   
if it sinks, it may well be in answer   
to the reasoning of the eternal voices,  
the waves which have kept me from reaching you._

-

Water laps across the voiceless shore, and Martin walks barefoot across the sand, his brown work shoes tied at the laces around his belt, knocking against his thigh. It doesn't bother him: his eyes are on the horizon. _On went she, and North her journey took_ , he thinks distantly — Wordsworth. He'd forget his head if it weren't screwed on (and if he didn't have a complicated system of phone reminders) but his brain has an unerring ability to store away poetry even if it's been a dozen years since the English class he'd read it in, and toss bits of it back at him at unexpected times. Though he never quotes it aloud. What kind of tosser would he be.

Peter quotes poetry aloud all the time, but Martin knows a lifetime of incredible privilege paired with the erosion of his humanity, slow as sea-cliffs, means Peter Lukas does not care what anyone else thinks of him. It's his most attractive and most infuriating feature.

He stops still at the edge of the water, the wet sand: there. _The Tundra_. Just a speck, yet, but she's got a clip to her. _With early song the copses ring._ It won't be long now.

It's been six months since Peter was last in London, which is why Martin is all the way out in Kent — _The Tundra_ makes port here in Gravesend, so close to Moorland House. Six months and Martin has never in his life had so many words stored up to say to another person, and the first three will be _I missed you_ because those are the three Peter likes to hear best. Sometimes Martin says them in the present tense, when they're in the same room, in the same bed, whispering them into Peter's ear like a prayer to his strange dark god of the empty places: "I miss you, I miss you, I miss you."

-

Martin has loved Jonathan Sims for so long it isn't even a story worth telling anymore. Too long, meandering, no ending to speak of. He carries his love with him like an open wound, sometimes so used to the dull ache that he's surprised when it suddenly stings. Like this:

"Your assistant fancies you," Peter says amiably, empty behind the smile. They're all in Elias' office for this meeting about budget requirements and Lukas family requests, and Peter is sitting on the edge of the desk like he owns it, the rest of them in chairs.

"What?" says Jon, looking up from the sea-worn chest of letters Peter brought him.

"That one," Peter says, tipping his chin towards Martin, who has gone still and pale, the whole world hushed around him. "He's so lonely for you I can taste it." Martin's heart and lungs feel too large for his chest suddenly, like love will come physically bursting out of him in a geyser of blood now that it has been named.

Nobody else is meeting anybody's eyes: they all knew, everyone in Archives — except Jon, of course. Elias is sat back in his chair like it's a wing-backed throne, watching unreadably.

"What?" says Jon again, into the silence of the room, a different tone entirely. He scoffs. "Martin," he says, "No, Martin isn't—" he cuts himself off, pausing, brow creasing very slightly. Seeming to sense the truth of it in the reactions of everyone else, or maybe just a dozen dozen tiny moments between them falling into place. "Martin?"

"If you don't want him, you won't mind if I—"

Peter doesn't get to finish explaining what he's planning on doing with Martin because he's socked in the jaw. There's a ringing in Martin's ears, his fist hurting. Everything happens quite suddenly then, people coming to life, grabbing him, saying his name, apologizing for him. But they're irrelevant. Even Jon is irrelevant, out of focus. There's just Martin glaring at Peter, and Peter, laughing, hand to his jaw, looking back.

-

"I hope you know," Jon says awkwardly, "That I have in fact come to think very highly of you." He doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands, keeps shuffling papers about at his desk. Martin didn't bother to take a seat: he'll face death standing, thanks. "As an assistant, and, I suppose, a friend. But I — even putting aside the ambiguous morality of- of _workplace fraternization_ , I'm afraid given the circumstances lately I'm—"

"You're too busy?" says Martin. "You're exhausted? You don't have time for a relationship? I know."

"Yes," says Jon, relieved and then immediately not. "Yes, I — however it's not simply the timing. Even were I to be... even if we pursued, an unwise course of action, I couldn't offer you— I have no interest in—"

"You're asexual," says Martin, his tone even. "Yeah, I know that too."

Jon blinks at the label, but doesn't deny it. "Then why on Earth—"

"Jon," interrupts Martin again, a little helplessly amused, "Jon. It's okay. I- I know nothing's going to happen between us. I've known for, um, for a while, now? I mean, I'd be okay with it, you know." He can feel his face heating. "All of it, all of those things, they don't change that I luh- I like you. I want to be with you. But it's not actually you, is it? It's me. _You're_ not interested in me."

"Martin," Jon says, and he sounds a little raw, but he doesn't disagree, either. His hands finally fall to his lap, defeated. "I'm sure one day you'll make somebody very happy."

Somebody else. Martin gives a short, soft breath of laughter. It's not a pleasant sound. "Okay," he says, because he's been holding up well, but he's far from made of marble. "Okay, um, I - I have to, I'm just going to—"

"Yes, thank you Martin," Jon dismisses him, and then, in an unusual moment of empathy: "Take the rest of the day off, if you'd like."

"Thanks," says Martin, and flees.

-

"I thought human connection was supposed to ward you away?" Martin somehow manages even though Peter Lukas is in his shitty little flat, sprawled on the sofa like he belongs there. "Like garlic and vampires." As if vampires aren't very real, as if garlic ever stopped them from ripping someone's throat out.

Peter laughs. "Not the way you do it."

It feels like a mistake, to close the door behind him, but Martin senses that while there is a predator in his space he needs to keep moving, seem normal, unafraid. He puts his satchel down, hangs his coat, heads into his kitchenette to put the kettle on to boil. "Tea?" he offers.

"Love a cup. Black." Peter has sat up, turned right around on the sofa to watch him, gaze snake-bright.

"How's your jaw," Martin asks, a little snippy and not at all apologetic. Peter laughs.

"Never better," he says cheerfully "You're lucky it was me you punched, and not my brother: Nate would have made Elias rake you over the bloody coals for unprofessional behavior."

"I doubt your brother would have humiliated me in front of all my coworkers," says Martin flatly.

"Well," says Peter with an unrepentant shrug. "Not deliberately. He wouldn't have understood why you feel so ripe for us." He winks, something lascivious in the way he says ripe, and Martin realizes that this visiting monster might be hitting on him.

He pauses at his kitchen counter where he's putting biscuits on a plate. "I'm not isolated." 

"Oh?" Peter makes a show of looking around the sparsely furnished room. "You live alone in a rental. No after work drinks on a Friday night. I'm fairly sure you're the one who no-one realized was missing way back when the Hive attacked the Archives — that's the kind of employee detail my family pays attention to. And you're in love with your boss, so I doubt you've got much else going on romantically. Family?"

"Mum in Manchester," Martin says sullenly. "I love her a lot, actually."

"Sweet," grins Peter. "Very sweet. There's nothing like the taste of someone who has just lost one of their last tethers to other people. The pain of it. The loneliness, sharper because it remembers being otherwise. If your mum kicks the bucket, give me a call, yeah?"

"And you'll what." Martin pours the tea, watching the water bloom amber as it hits the bag. "Steal me away on your boat?"

Peter laughs. "So spicy. I like it." Martin brings the mugs over and he accepts one, holds it without immediately drinking it. "I could sacrifice you to my god, out on the water, sure, but Elias gets touchy about that sort of thing. No, someone like you? I'd much rather you joined us. 'Course, it isn't just signing a contract." He traces a finger around the rim of his mug. "We're a family."

"So I'd be your little brother?" says Martin dubiously. He only has one couch, sits alongside Peter, turned a little towards him, trying not to think too much on how strange everything about this situation is. About how his heart is suddenly beating faster, loud in his ears.

"Oh, no," says Peter, quite calmly. "My husband."

-

The little boat sinks into the sand of the shore. The water is up to Martin's ankles as he pulls it further onto the land; Peter drops his oars and joins him, leaping down into the foamy surf's end with a splash and together they bring it up, up, safe past the high tide mark. Martin is watching him the whole time, his hands on the wooden edge, the rime of his hair and collar, wind-ruddy cheeks.

"I missed you," he says, and Peter laughs — not meanly, delighted.

" _Oh_ ," he says, a little mocking, a little warm, " _May your silhouette never dissolve on the beach; may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance_ —"

Martin kisses him to stop up his mouth, because how dare he, how dare he. It's pretentious, to quote Neruda aloud, and it makes Martin's knees weak, his stomach thick with warmth. Peter holds him close by the waist. He has big, broad hands, and his mouth lays waste to Martin's, storms his castle, sacks his city. Martin isn't a small guy, but Peter takes his weight easily when Martin climbs him, first one leg and then the other, tight around his hips. They kiss like that for a long time, until the orange of the weak sunlight cannot be ignored.

"I do need to get back," Peter says reluctantly, kissing Martin's jaw. "They can't make port without me, after all."

Martin stands on his own two feet again, catching his breath. "Do you have it?"

Peter pulls the artifact from his pocket, a heavy jewel on tarnished chain. Too dangerous or too valuable to be catalogued by the London Port Authority. The real reason Peter makes the grueling row to the shore of this isolated little cove, even if Martin likes to pretend it's for him, as he watches the rowboat close on the shore.

The metal is strangely warm in his hands. "I'll get it to Salaesa," he promises. "And I'll see you at home."

"Not for a couple of days," Peter says, hand wandering to feel out the shape of Martin's ass in his jeans. "Got to head to Moorland first, see Nate, and supervise getting _The Tundra_ into drydock — she wrestled some nasty weather out there."

Martin's treacherous heart catches in the back of his throat, has to remember to breathe evenly. "Repairs. That means you'll be ashore for a while though, doesn't it?"

"It might," says Peter, amused, capable of seeing right through him. "Got plans for me, Martin?"

"At least a week's worth," Martin tells him cheekily, his eyes shining. "Maybe more. It's been six months, you know? I _missed_ you."

Peter's smile is empty. "That's what I like to hear."

-

"Your family seem quite traditional," Martin hears himself saying, as if from far away. "Are you sure they'd be okay with um, you wanting to marry another man?"

"Aw, well, I've always been a bit of a black sheep," Peter answers, not sounding bothered by it. He moves incrementally closer; Martin notices distantly but doesn't move back. "But our god isn't exactly the Christian god, yeah? They'd just be happy to see me settle down. Marriage is an important ritual to us, one I've never had much interest in."

Martin is taking short sips of breath, and they only grow in rapidity when Peter touches him, his heartbeat tripling. He's above himself, looking down as Peter Lukas palms the back of his neck and leans in— 

"Hey," says Peter, face close. "Martin. You're having a panic attack. I need you to take some deep breaths for me. Let's breathe together. In—"

It's ten long cycles of deep breaths before Martin settles back into his body, another ten before he feels together enough to shake Peter off, stand up just to get away. He rubs a hand over his face. Doesn't thank Peter for helping, doesn't even look at him.

"You have anxiety like that often?" Peter asks, sounding a little more solemn than his earlier teasing.

Martin shrugs. "Used to, a decade ago."

"Hm," says Peter, but if he's got further thoughts on the subject, he doesn't share them. "Tell me about you and the Archivist."

"What?" Now Martin does look, glancing back suspiciously.

Peter pats the sofa cushion. "Come on. Sit down. No more talk of defecting or marriage, promise. You did sock me for bringing up you holding a great big torch, so I'm curious about it. When'd it start?"

Martin reluctantly takes his seat again, picks up his tea for something to do with his hands. "The day he came in for an interview," he says. He's never told anyone this before. "I was in charge of getting people tea while they filled out the application, and I saw him and thought— I don't know. Something stupid. Found him attractive. He got the job, in Research, so I started dropping by there more. Even got up the courage to ask him out, but it was to group drinks, and I realize now getting Jon to come to any gathering with more than three people is like pulling teeth." He grins ruefully. "He said his life was 'perfectly fulfilling without the inane chatter of the office alcoholics in it', so he probably thought I pitied him? I just figured he didn't like me. And that was that."

"Except it wasn't," points out Peter, brow furrowed.

"Except it wasn't," Martin agrees. "Elias picked me to transfer to Archives when Jon got the Archivist position. Then... I don't know. I got to know him better? He was _such_ a difficult boss. But he was kind, too, sometimes, and I could tell he needed a bit of looking after, and I guess after Prentiss, when I was living in the Archives, I - I just started to... it stopped being just a crush? Um." He blows out a harsh breath, brow furrowed like he's not sure how he went from mild infatuation to how he feels now, like he'd do anything for Jon. Like he'd die for him.

"I see," says Peter, sounding thoughtful. "Well, that's very cute. Looking forward to hearing all about your happily ever after, yeah?" Except the bite of amusement at Martin's misfortune is more muted now.

"Ah, right," says Martin, "Only that probably won't happen, because—" He cuts himself off, swallows. Because of stuff that's none of Peter Lukas' business, is why.

Peter doesn't seem bothered by being denied the full story — seems all together done with Martin now. He stands, ruffles Martin's already messy hair like he's a kid. "Thanks for the tea and the story," he says, heading to the door, seeing himself out. He casts a wink back over his shoulder. "I'll be seeing you around."

-

Dear Mum,

Once again your favourite son Martin is forcing you to endure his messy handwriting. Amanda said maybe I should send a tape again but I've gone off recording. Back to good old pen and paper for me.

Wow! Where to start! So much has been happening! I met one of the Magnus Institute sponsors, Peter Lukas. He's the Captain of a cargo vessel that travels all over the world. I asked if he'd take my old stuffed Paddington bear with him when he next sailed out and take photos of Paddington having a holiday. He said he'd think about it. He also kind of proposed to me but I think he was joking, LOL! (That's "Laugh Out Loud", which I did just thinking about it.)

Mostly though we talked about work, because I still work for the Institute of course. My boss Elias did most of the talking actually, and Peter a bit. Apparently we're going to be very busy over the next year with lots of work. When I started that would have really stressed me out, as I'm sure you'll remember if you look over some of my old letters, but I do think I've been getting the hang of my job. Sometimes it's hard, and it feels like I'm the only one around putting any effort in, but I don't want to let the team down so I do as you taught me and Carry On. 

Found a signed copy of Hitch-hiker's in a second hand shop the other day. I was meant to be looking for work-related stuff but it made me think of you so I bought it. I'll send it on if you'd like, Amanda said you'd been really enjoying being read to, that it really seemed to bring back memories. 

Well, I do go on. Got to go and put the tea on, probably making some spaghetti tonight. Call and let me know what you're having! Would love to hear your voice.

Love you loads,

Martin.

-

A month.

Jon was Nikola Orsinov's captive for a _month_ and Martin didn't know. He feels weak at the thought, dizzy, has to sit down in the nearest chair.

"A month," he manages aloud.

It's just, Jon's been so in and out of the office, barely speaking to anyone, that nobody thought his disappearance was weird. It strikes him (like a literal blow to the gut) that this is probably how they'd felt when Martin got back from his "sick leave" that had been thirteen days as Prentiss' prisoner. And Martin had said, then, _no, of course, I understand, she sent text messages from my phone, I know, I know, I wouldn't have expected anyone to check up on me, and I mostly write to mum, so—_ and he'd smiled and placated and roiled internally with angry loneliness. 

That was thirteen days. This was a _month_.

And Jon is taking off again already because of course he is. Off to get himself into who knows what trouble. Martin's stomach cramps up just thinking about it.

His skin feels clammy, and he wonders for a moment if it's possible to die of worry.

"Yeah," says Peter Lukas from the doorway to their offices, "I sort of thought this might happen." 

Peter navigates the maze of desks and boxes and filing cabinets like he works there, perches on the edge of Martin's desk and watches him. His head is tilted just slightly in interest, a little inhuman quirk. "Breathe," he says. Martin looks up at him, realizes belatedly that he's hyperventilating and tries to stop. Scrabbles uselessly at the plastic arms of his desk chair. How does he breathe? How can he have forgotten how to breathe? Peter sighs and leans forward, puts his hands on both of Martin's shoulders, and kisses him.

When was the last time Martin was kissed? It was a bar, he thinks. A girl. Punjabi, the ends of her hair a fading sunset colour. She had been a smoker, he could taste it in her mouth. Purple-blue lipstick — he could taste that too. Afterwards he'd looked like he'd been gorging on blackberries; _leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for picking_. 

Peter pulls back, and Martin sucks in a sharp breath, eyes injury-wide. "That's it," he chuckles, encouraging. "Deep breaths."

Martin relearns his lungs, closes his eyes, finds calm.

He imagines he can still feel the warm weight of hands upon his shoulders.

-

"How are you doing, Martin?" asks Mikael Salaesa, a full two feet taller than Martin at the very least, and built three times the width. Despite all that Samoan muscle and the tattooed guys who shadow him, Salaesa never makes Martin feel unsafe: he has a broad, charming smile and a direct manner. A born salesman, in a good way.

"I'm well thank you," says Martin, navigating the boxes deftly. However much he trusts Salaesa, he knows better than to trust his wares. Remembers the story of the guy trapped in the box — how could he not? It had given him nightmares for weeks.

"And what have you got for me?"

Martin pulls out the necklace, and Salaesa's eyes light up. He takes it from him, pulling out a jeweller's eyepiece from one of his suit's many pockets and examining the chain, the gem. Murmurs happily to himself about curses and legends. Martin's used to it, though he sometimes wonders if Jon ever visited this guy. He seems like the type with statements to spare. But he doesn't like to think much about Jon these days.

"You can transfer the money by the usual means," says Martin, when it becomes apparent Salaesa hasn't found any flaws.

Salaesa smiles, and nods, and says. "I'm afraid I can't give you your little finder's fee, however, Martin."

Martin freezes. "What?" he squeaks. "I mean, that's always been — part of our arrangement. It's, you know, it covers travel, and bribes, that sort of thing. Ha ha."

Salaesa's smile doesn't leave, but it does dim towards sadness. "I'm afraid despite my care with the numbers, one of the Lukases must have noticed. They made it very clear they would be able to provide for anything you needed themselves, but I cannot give you any cash. Do you understand?"

Martin's eyes close for a moment, and he leans hard on a nearby box. But then he opens them again, and nods. "Yeah," he says. "Got it. Sorry to be a pain."

"Never that," says Salaesa. "You come by again soon, my friend."

-

Martin makes his own tea, shaky-handed in the Archives break room, while Peter watches. He doesn't ask until he has the mug warm between his palms, and they sit together at the shabby little table. "How'd you know?" And he clarifies: "You said you thought you'd find me panicking?"

"Because I've been helping Elias rescue the Archivist," says Peter. Martin's nostrils flare. "Because I know he got back today, and so you would have found out about his captivity."

"Elias _knew_ —"

"Normally wouldn't defend the amount he keeps from you lot, but in this case it was for your own good. Yours in particular, Martin. There was nothing that could have been served by you rushing off to try and rescue Jon — even if you'd found him, Orsinov's dummies would have snuffed you like a candle." He shakes his head. "And I don't think you could've sat idly by."

"I—" Martin still feels dizzy with anger, but he can't deny it. He takes a long draught of his tea, still hot enough that he can feel it scalding all the way down his throat. "That doesn't answer my question, though, really, does it?"

"Not much of a Sherlock, are you?" Peter asks with a friendly smile. "Not really suited to Beholding at all. Did you know, Elias was completely aware you'd lied on your resume when he promoted you to the Archives? Yeah, we've been chatting about you." Martin isn't sure he likes the sound of that, no matter how amiable Peter sounds when he says it. "No Masters in Paranormal Psychology. No uni at all, in fact. Completely unqualified for the job. He knew. Hired you anyway. Generous of him, wasn't it?"

None of this is answering Martin's question, and he huffs. If he was more assertive he'd probably tell Peter Lukas to sod off, but the man did just help him through his panic, and he's an Institute sponsor, so for now Martin tries to stay polite. "I'm aware of my own work history, thanks."

Peter barks a single gruff laugh. "All right, let me ask you this. What made you panic last April, when we were at your shithole flat."

"You," Martin says immediately. 

"Mm, technically yes, but not in the way you're thinking. It wasn't some scared rabbit fight or flight instinct. It was the possibility of me getting you out."

"Getting me out," Martin scoffs. "You make it sound like a prison break."

"Depends what you think the prison is," says Peter, and then, lyrically: " _And thus we rust Life's iron chain, Degraded and alone: and some men curse, and some men weep, And some men make no moan._ "

"That's Oscar Wilde," Martin says immediately, his resentment at this entire conversation temporarily forgotten.

"Poetry fan, are you, Martin?" Peter seems pleased, moving in closer. "Seems we really are birds of a feather."

Martin shrugs, not really sure he wants to find common ground with Peter Lukas. "I panicked at the thought of you stealing me away to your monster cult and making me your wife or something," he says sharply, and he's feeling nauseous again. Peter touches his shoulder and Martin shies away from it, but Peter grabs him, holds him there as he leans down. 

Martin wonders if he's going to be kissed again. Can't stop thinking about it, can't think of anything he wants less. He tips his head up as Peter dips, long eyelashes fluttering slightly. He feels dizzy, heat prickling down his spine. He wonders who will hear him if he screams. Their faces are inches apart. His lips part, just slightly. He can feel Peter's warm breath on them, and it makes his stomach curl even as his dick starts to take an interest.

"You're going to beg me to take you, Martin Blackwood," Peter informs him, blue eyes bright. There's nothing behind them. "But not yet. Not quite yet."

And then he stands, and leaves, and Martin's left wanting, his fingers curled into hopeful fists.

-

Dear Mum,

It's me, your only son, Martin, writing you again. Amanda said you weren't up to writing back yet but I thought I'd send another anyway, to keep you company. I'm trying to get some time off work, so I can drive up and we can spend some time together. Amanda also said you were off your food, but I know if I bring some of my meatloaf sandwiches you won't be able to resist. Try and eat something before then, please. You have to eat, mum.

As for me, mostly the usual. Work at the Magnus Institute as an Archival Assistant is still pretty good, pay's decent, everyone's very friendly. We don't spend time much outside of work though. I'm sure I'll make some other friends soon. That guy I wrote you about, Peter Lukas, he showed up in my life again. Don't really know what to think about him. Good looking I suppose in a Jason Isaacs sort of way but I always feel like he's making fun of me. He does have a lot of money, though, his family's rolling in it. Maybe I'll marry him after all and get you ten Amandas! They probably won't all be called Amanda though. It would be nice to be able to make you more comfortable. I could even quit my job and come see you more often. That would make me happy. 

I miss you and think about you every day.

Your loving son,

Martin.

-

"Statement of...Fiona Craigie, regarding the um, the contents of her son's lungs. Incident occurred in Newcastle-on-Tyne, 21st of September, 1985. Martin Blackwood recording.

"Did you know it's not true? What they say about eating spiders in your sleep. Maybe you've read it as a weird but true factoid somewhere, that we all swallow eight spiders a year, but truth is, it's an urban myth. A spider won't crawl into the wet cavern of your mouth. Nah, they're too smart for that, or their instincts are too good. They know there's nothing in there for them.

"Banjo was three when he was diagnosed with lung cancer. Just three years old, still my sweet baby boy. We'd just moved over here -- my wife's from Newcastle, and she carried Banjo, so he was technically a dual-citizen. Bit more complicated for me, since we got married while I was legally still a man. But my maternal grandmother's Irish, and my great grandfather on the other side was from Kent, so we're working the visa situation out. Bit of a mutt, me: a little Sicilian, a little Korean, even a little Aboriginal, not that I have the balls to tell anyone that. A tangle of global genetics. 

"But shit, I'm getting off track. Easier to write about my family melting pot than talk about the cancer. It's only been three weeks since we lost him. I'm not over it, god knows I'm not over it, but I've got to be strong for Jessamyn. She can't even leave the house yet. And I felt like... I felt like we should tell someone, you know. About the spiders.

"Jess really liked spiders. It's why she came over to Australia in the first place. Hell, it's how we met. I was working the orchards and farms for the season, picking and packing for three months, going from farm to farm, before heading home to Adelaide. They pay your transport, accommodation, and a decent wage, so it's good work if you can handle the long, hard days. But it had been a wet, wet month, and there'd been flooding. So one day we went out to the field and the trees were covered in web. It looked like snow. One giant blanket of thick cobwebs draped over the orchard; they were climbing, you see, the thousands of spiders who lived in the floodplains, climbing to escape the water. And Jess, her job was to come in when this happened and advocate for the spiders. Make sure the farmer didn't just pest control the whole lot and cause a bunch of species to go extinct. 

"Jess was an arachnologist, so she had a scientific interest, but she really loved the little buggers, too. Beats me why - I'm not phobic, but I think the way they move is creepy. Meanwhile here's my new girlfriend, telling me one of the saddest parts of traveling around for work was that she couldn't keep and raise some spiders of her own. She knew all these spider facts; she's the one who told me that we don't eat spiders in our sleep. Reassuring. Still checked under the loo seat for a redback every time I sat down, though; she couldn't allay all my fears. 

"We decided to try for a kid right as the 80s hit. Much as I love my vagina, it's man-made, so it was up to her to carry the sprog. None of my family speak to me, and I've never really had a permanent adult home, so when she suggested we head back to England to get some support from her family while we raised Banjo, I agreed. We made sure he was born here, and then obviously it took a while for him to be okay to travel, but after his first birthday we all flew over together. And for two years, we were happy. Probably the happiest I've ever been or ever will be. There's nothing quite like motherhood, nothing.

"I worked. Jess turned back to academia as a second source of income, but mostly she looked after our kid. That meant she was home a lot, and since she wasn't working directly with spiders any more, we agreed, after a lot of negotiating, that it would be all right if she got a couple as pets. They're like fish, she explained: you feed them, and you look at them, but you don't touch them or let 'em out of their tanks. Personally I would rather have had the fish, but she wanted Banjo to grow up unafraid of the arachnids that she loved, and ... well, I loved her more than I hated spiders."

-

There's a noise, suddenly, that breaks Martin out of his recording trance. He shakes his head and looks about the office, not sure what he just heard.

"Hello?" he asks, and then, "Basira?" Because it's usually Basira accidentally interrupting him — she's spooky with how quiet she can be, until suddenly she isn't and scares the living daylights out of him.

The noise comes again — it sounds like a sob. Martin leaves the tape running, just in case, and gets up from his desk to investigate. He's working late, wanted to fit the recording in today, so there shouldn't be anyone else still here except Janitorial.

"Hello?" he tries again.

"Oh, Martin, sorry," says Melanie, her voice tight and wet. She emerges from behind the filing stacks. "God, I'm so sorry. I didn't really know you were still here, and then I heard you doing a statement and I didn't want to interrupt but I just—" she sniffs, dashing at her eyes like she's angry at her tears.

"It's okay, it's okay," soothes Martin. "I mean, I nearly wet myself, obviously," trying to get a smile, "But it's fine, the statement can wait. Truly. Can I get you something? A cup of tea?"

"Oh, god," Melanie half wails like that's a dire offer, and then, trying to keep it together, "Yes, yes, tea would be — tea would be lovely, Martin, thank you. Listen... would you mind if I... if I finished the statement for you? Just, I could really use the chance to get out of my head a bit."

"Are you sure?" Martin asks, sounding concerned. "It's about a toddler who has spiders in his lungs, it's not exactly—" 

"Yes, that's fine. It doesn't matter. Anything that isn't — fire."

"Fire," repeats Martin softly, and then, daring to pat her shoulder gingerly. "Right. Well. You do the statement, not much left anyway, and I'll get us a cup of tea. All right?"

He takes his time with it. He knows how the statement goes — the mysterious hobbyist calling himself 'Mr Spider'. Jessamyn's madness, confusing the spiders and her son. The illness, the diagnosis, the failure of chemo, the child's death on the operating table. It's not the sort of thing he wants to hear read aloud in the voice of a tearful woman. And if he feels a little strange, leaving it half unfinished, leaving it in someone else's hands... well, it's probably just guilt, isn't it, at letting someone else experience the hard bits.

He retrieves the nice biscuits, the soft honey ones with pink icing, from where he'd hidden them from Tim in an old filing cabinet. Puts a few on a plate, brings out two strong cups of tea, his sweet and hers bitter. Waits as Melanie reads out his final notes, and then pointedly turns the tape recorder off.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks.

Melanie sips her tea. She looks a little better, alternating a hot drink and deep breaths. "No," she says, and Martin would leave it there because she kind of scares him, but: "Still, I think I'd better. It's Elias."

"You were crying over _Elias_."

"No, no, god. I was — my father. He died a couple of years ago, in a fire." Oh. Fire. Martin doesn't understand the connection, but he can see why that would be upsetting. "He had dementia," Melanie continues, "So I had him in — in care. It probably wasn't very... I mean, I was just a YouTuber, I couldn't exactly afford anything fancy."

Martin nods. "My mum has Huntington's," he says quietly, and she looks at him, startled.

"Martin, I didn't—"

"Not exactly a conversation opener, is it? Besides, we're getting to that age. When everyone's parents start to... well, I understand, that's all I meant. It's hard, to leave her in a home and hope the nurses will be kind because if they're not she, she won't be able to tell me." He grimaces. "Sorry, we were talking about you."

"Yeah." She sighs, and there's a pause, and Martin anxiously wonders if he's just been really rude, going on about himself, and she's done talking to him. But instead she leans across and takes his one free hand, where it's resting on the arm of his office chair. Martin is startled; not much of a toucher, Melanie.

"He made me see it," she tells him, eyes like coals of anger. "That mother _fucker_ made me watch my father burn to death. He took the knowledge from god knows where, and he put it in my head— because apparently he can _do_ that, just mess with our minds."

"How could he even—" Martin starts, and Melanie _looks_ at him and he hurries to add, "No, all right, I believe you! I do! I mean, it would explain a lot, really, I just..." he exhales. " _How_. God. Everything gets weirder every day."

"I didn't ask for this," says Melanie. "All I wanted was a job, not for some bloody psychopath to see me at my lowest and think, oh, she seems useful."

Martin squeezes her hand. "I'm sorry." But it feels as pointless as it does when he's comforting Tim. Sometimes it feels like he's the only one who wants to be here. 

(No. Not wants, it's more like—)

"All we are to him in pawns," Melanie says, vicious, tearing up again, and Martin wants to be there for her, he does, but there's something right on the edge of his understanding, he's almost got the shape of it. Something Peter said. Something Peter asked.

-

"Still living in this shithole?" Peter asks with a grin, and then, laughing, "Christ, Martin," as he's barreled back into the front door.

When Martin's tongue is back in his own mouth again, he says, "I thought you liked my place."

"I'm paying fifteen thousand pounds a night for a full service penthouse suite in Knightsbridge," says Peter dryly, without braggadocio. "You live in _Stockwell_."

"So um, why aren't we in your gigantic hotel bed then?" asks Martin cheekily, and Peter pinches his side, makes him yelp, ticklish, squirm away. "What's that? What's that, Peter? You like getting fucked in my Stockwell shithole? Augh—"

This last high noise because Peter has picked him up bodily like a sack of potatoes, all that sailor strength. Peter makes him feel small — no mean feat when he was a fat kid and a tall man: he's spent his whole life feeling huge. Martin pounds a fist on one broad shoulder to no avail as he's carried into the bedroom and tossed onto his bed, slats creaking ominously, and then louder again when Peter joins him, bearing him down into the mattress and impatiently rucking aside his clothes.

"We're going to break my bed," Martin gasps, arching, his nipple tightening under Peter's cruel twist.

"I'll buy you a new one." Peter smiles against Martin's neck, the plane of skin a blank canvas for his mouth. Six months and not a mark remained, but those, too, can be replaced.

-

The funeral is in Manchester, where he grew up. A long overdue visit. He can't tell whether the ache is because he's so far from the Institute or something more normal. Martin buries all his letters with her, in a tupperware container. He didn't cry when Amanda called him, and he doesn't at the funeral, either, just reads the eulogy he wrote blankly. 

(He doesn't speak about how an ill-timed spasm once drove a chopping knife into the back of her hand and deadened the nerves in three of her fingers. How she'd once left a pot on the stove to boil and nearly burned down their cheap apartment when she forgot it. How often she forgot his name. He doesn't tell the gathering that he gave up all his opportunities in life just to take care of her, because she was his mother and he loved her more than he wanted to finish high school, go to university, study poetry.)

He reads Auden's Funeral Blues as well, even though it's a cliché. _Nothing now can ever come to any good._ There aren't many people in the church, mostly just care workers and some old school friends, both his and hers. She'd had a neurodegenerative since he was fourteen, and before that she had been a single mum. That didn't leave room for a busy social life.

His dad doesn't come, or at least, there are no strange men at the funeral, god knows he can't help but look. Martin wonders whether the man hadn't been told or didn't care, adds it to the pile of things about his father he will never know.

He drives home alone. When he realizes the lightness he feels is relief he has to pull over and vomit on the side of the road. A horse stares at him from a field, its tail idly flicking, its eyes endless.

-

Dear mum,

I miss you.

-

Elias Bouchard never smiles with his whole face. Sometimes it's his mouth, and sometimes it's his eyes, but it's never both at once. Right now it's just his mouth, as Martin takes a seat in his office. "What can I help you with, Martin," he says, though he's writing something at the same time, Martin only having half his attention, if that. "If it's about Jon, I'm afraid he's out of the country right now. America, I think, although—"

"It's about Jon," Martin dares to interrupt, but he doesn't have niceties in him right now. "But I want to speak with you, not him."

"Oh?" Still that same smug smile. Martin can almost imagine what he expects: a request to hear about Jon's well-being, or to take over doing statements full time, or any of the other dozens of concerns he's had about the Archivist over the past month.

He is so, so tired of thinking about Jonathan Sims.

"It's about how you made me obsessed with him," says Martin, and Elias stops writing. He puts the pen down carefully. There's no more smiling.

"I _made_ you obsessed with him?" Elias repeats, carefully mild. "Whatever put that thought into your head?"

"You," says Martin. "Melanie told me all about how you can put _thoughts_ into people's heads. And I know you've done something to me, to give me panic attacks, and I want you to undo it."

"Martin," says Elias seriously, "If you're having problems with anxiety, after your mother's passing, perhaps you would be better served discussing them with a psychiatrist."

"No," Martin says, fingers curling so tight his nails dig into his palms. He's trembling a little. "No, it's not something I can just medicate. It's not about my mum. You— you're _using_ me, because you want, I don't know, someone willing to die for Jon, probably? Someone who'll do his work without complaint while he's in _America_. So you did, you. I- I don't know what you did exactly. But I want—"

"It's very simple, actually," says Elias softly. "You have a latent panic disorder, and you already had a little crush, after all. I didn't sew those seeds, Martin. I simply... cultivated them. Still, I admit, I'm impressed. Figuring it out is more than I would have expected from you. Could there perhaps be some Lukas influence in this little epiphany?" He sounds dry.

Martin flushes at this condescension, angry and ashamed because yes, all right, he's not very smart. He knows that about himself. Peter practically spelled it out for him and he didn't figure it out for himself until some liminal point, halfway between an old home and a new one, leaning on his car on the side of the road. "It doesn't matter," he says, flat. "Whatever you did, undo it."

"So demanding." Elias is smiling with his eyes now, and Martin wonders if he'd bleed if his nose was broken. Elias must read his mind, because he tuts. "Now now, there's no call for violence. I can't undo everything I've done, but I can take care of the panic attacks, at least, and some of the — shall we say, devotion, that I instilled in you. But are you sure that's what you really want? Without your loyalty to the Archivist, I'm afraid we don't really have much use for you."

"Then fire me," says Martin, stubborn. 

Elias laughs, but it sounds a little tired. "That's not possible. Not in the way you think. But I am aware that there are other... interested parties, to whom I do owe a recent debt, and so I will let you go, if that's really what you want. I do prefer to let my employees feel as though they have a choice. Even if that means I have to watch them suffer the consequences of those choices."

Martin suddenly remembers Gertrude's body in the tunnels, the blood of Juergen Leitner splashed across Jon's office, and shivers. Consequences. Is he about to die?

"Not by my hand," says Elias, as though Martin asked his question aloud. "Jon would never forgive me. But you serve no further purpose at the Institute and so I take no further responsibility for you, Martin." He pushes back his chair, goes to a filing cabinet behind his desk and rifles through it. "Ah. Good. Here is your contract, from when you transferred to Archives. Take it." He holds it out, and Martin takes it, his hand still trembling finely. "I advise you keep it safe; the last time an employee decided to self-terminate the mess was difficult to get out of the carpets."

Martin looks down at it. "Um," he says, "So do I still... work here? Are you going to keep paying me?"

"That's up to you," says Elias, which is a ridiculous answer to a perfectly normal question about job security, and Martin has never felt more out of his depth. "It's literally in your hands now. If you do decide to stay, let me know. I'm sure I can still find a use for you."

"Oh, well, great," says Martin, too on edge to mitigate his sarcasm. "That sounds great, not ominous at all." He gets up, feeling lost. Directionless. Realizing that Elias really must have undone something essential in him, but he's left it all at loose ends, and Martin doesn't know how to put it right.

When he thinks of Jon, he feels nothing at all.

"Go home, Martin," says Elias, the last instruction Beholding will ever give him, and he does.

-

They fuck like the tides, rolling, steady, even after the bed breaks and the mattress dips strangely in the corner.

" _Cedar and white ash,_ " Peter murmurs hotly in his ear. " _Rock cedar and sand plants and tamarisk, red cedar and white cedar_ — ah, there, that's it."

Martin doesn't speed his hips up, but he does the exact same movement again but with a firmer snap to his hips, loving the way it makes Peter go tight around him, makes his solid body pliant beneath Martin.

" _Black cedar from the innermost forest_ ," Peter continues, and Martin has never been so hard in his life. " _Fragrance upon fragrance, and all my sea-magic is for naught._ "

Martin's feet scramble for purchase against his own sheets, everything slipping backwards with gravity as the mattress slopes, demanding more force in his thrusts. Every time he sinks deep Peter grunts, raw. The room fills with the sound of them, hot skin noises and the variations in the way breath can be dragged, needy, out of the lungs.

"Do you like that?" Martin keeps asking, and when he started it was sincere but as they get faster he gets meaner with it, dirty: "Do you like that? Getting fucked? Can you come just from my cock in you?"

Peter laughs, comes laughing, a warm splash between them as his body gives way to Martin's increasingly frantic demands.

Martin keeps going for a while after that — he's already come once, before they even got all his clothes off, his young cock overeager after so long apart. It means he can take his time now, sink into the sweet brainless plateau as Peter strokes his sweaty hair and recites more poetry.

Even when he's done, Martin spilling into the condom, Peter is relentless. "Is that it?" he asks, reaching down to pull Martin out, skin away the latex with a hand, making a mess over his groin but not caring. He curls his hand tight around Martin's oversensitive head, where it's red and stinging, rubs his thumb into the mouth of the slit. "Is that all you have for me?" Peter's fist is come-slick as he works it rapidly over Martin's spent and softening cock.

Martin yells at the feel of it, somehow good and too much at the same time, tries to squirm away from this torture to no avail, bites Peter's neck, pants "Fuck god stop please," even as his hips buck furiously. "No," he whines, but they have a safeword for a reason, and Peter ignores him until he's wrung all the sensation out of Martin and he's nothing but a trembling wreck.

" _I would give up rock-fringes of coral, and the innermost chamber of my island palace, and my own gifts,_ " Peter quotes into the breathless aftermath, finishing the poem. " _And the whole region of my power and magic, for your glance._ "

-

Martin doesn't know how Peter finds out, and he doesn't ask, just accepts that he's there, waiting. Martin takes him mutely by the ship-calloused hand and leads him into his ugly flat. _Come with me, I said, and no-one knew where, or how my pain throbbed._

"If I — if I marry you, or whatever," Martin asks, feelings a little silly, a little shy, "Will I stop feeling like this?"

"If you join us," Peter says, hands at his shoulders and then his jaw, "You'll be able to see how beautiful the feeling really is. How inevitable it is, to lose everything, piece by piece, and die alone."

Martin is quiet for a moment, at that. It doesn't feel comforting — but _Peter_ does, all warm broad hands that Martin wants to use to drive the pain back.

"Please stay the night?" Martin requests in a small voice. "I know that companionship um, is kind of the opposite of what you're all about—"

Peter's eyes lid. "My god is a hungry god," he murmurs. "And it can't feed on empty men. My brother serves it, but he's also escaped it, hollowed and husked as he is. I prefer to be able to _feel_ things like companionship, because it makes the loneliness all the more bountiful when I inevitably lose it."

If Martin said he entirely understood, he'd be lying. But he thinks that might be a yes.

"Be gentle?" Martin asks as he unbuttons his black shirt, _Tread softly_ , and Peter laughs at him.

"No," he replies, "I don't think that's what you want at all."

-

Peter bathes him first, like an act of devotion — he doesn't strip any further than bare feet and his sleeves rolled up, and he sits on the edge of Martin's little tub-shower combo and soaps him down, handling each limb with an easy surety, like he's done this before. Washes his feet, his cock, under each arm, not quite impersonal but never lingering unnecessarily, either.

"Stand," he says, and "Rinse," and Martin does, obedience so easy, easier than thinking. "Turn," says Peter, and "Bend, hold the edge — yes, there."

Martin doesn't, um — he enjoys teasing his lovers a little, being playfully stern, and if anybody gets tied up it's usually not him. It's all safely negotiated beforehand, too, kink lists and consent, the safety of online messaging to hash out the details before they meet in person. That's how he's been doing it for the last seven-odd years. Peter hasn't even asked — hasn't even told him what he's going to do, confident that he knows exactly what Martin wants and needs, and that should be terrifying and wrong but instead— 

The water stops. Martin stands there, dripping, goose flesh, trying to make sure his feet don't slip out from under him. He's very aware of the fact that he's so hard that his cock is right up against the scrunch of his belly, and that with his stance so wide for stability Peter can see basically everything. Wonders if Peter's going to finger him. If he'll bother to use lube.

Something slick does run over his balls, then, trailing along the crack of his ass, and Martin rocks forward onto his toes and drops his head to try and see, upside-down, what's going on. Peter stops what he's doing and pulls him back by the hair without a word, just a sharp tug back into position. Martin makes a high noise.

"Be still," Peter tells him, all the jocularity gone from his voice. Martin wishes he could see his face.

When it comes it's not what he was expecting, and it takes him a moment to recognize the scrape of the razor for what it is. Peter is slow and methodical, as he tugs Martin's cheeks apart as he needs them, pulls his balls this way and that. He doesn't shave anywhere else, but when he turns the water on again to rinse Martin feels raw there, exposed.

"I'm going to expect you to take care of this yourself from now on," Peter informs him, and Martin has to choke back a laugh, because when the hell did his life turn into _50 Shades of Grey_?

"Are you going to give me an enema, too?" he asks, and Peter laughs.

"If that's what you're into. But I'm not getting you ready to be fucked, here, Martin."

"Oh," Martin says, not sure what to say to that. If it's naive to ask what he is getting Martin ready for. He straightens up, and Peter doesn't stop him, just reaches out an arm to steady him as he steps out onto the bathmat, and then swaddles him in a towel.

When he's dry enough, Peter takes him to bed. Spreads him out across tired, greying sheets and cups his ass, lifts it up to his mouth as if to drink from a bowl. Martin white-knuckles the backs of his knees as Peter kisses over all the newly-shaven skin, so sensitive now. Peter mouths at his balls, tugging at the sac with his teeth, sucking them in and out of his lips with wet pops, and it's so warm and good that Martin moans helplessly for it. He's already turned on beyond belief when Peter moves lower, and his hot tongue probes Martin's hole like nothing anyone has ever done to him, and Martin cries out with his whole self. "Peter," he manages, high and shocked, flushed all down his chest.

"Martin," says Peter, squeezes his ass. Puts his mouth there, right on the hole, a filthy and lingering kiss. Traces the tip of his tongue delicately around the rim to make Martin shriek. Sinks his whole face in between the cheeks, stubble rasping; Martin is going to have unexpected friction burn over his freshly shaven skin, and right now he doesn't even care, is trying to physically pull himself double so he can rock up and try for more of Peter's wicked, wicked mouth. There is nothing in the world except sensation now. No death, no marriage, no Eye. Even Peter doesn't feel truly with him in this moment. He comes untouched, cock jerking hard, splashing thick white ropes over his own chest, into his open mouth.

-

Martin has never been romanced before, but Peter is more than happy to change that. He splashes his money around like it's meaningless: lunches on Thames steamboats with a jazz band playing; degustation menus at five star restaurants; their own box at the theatre; room service to Peter's obscenely expensive hotel room. But there are other things, too. The way Peter laces their fingers together so tightly, or runs his palm over the back of Martin's neck. The poetry — Martin dares to shyly share a little of his, and Peter praises it lavishly, though he has suggestions too. They talk about the romantics versus the realists. They talk about politics — Peter, older, reminisces. They talk, once, about Martin's mother. They talk about monsters, though only rarely. 

And the sex. God, the sex is good.

_I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes._

They marry in Town Hall. Nobody else is there. Peter pays two homeless men fifty dollars each to attend and witness. After, he drags Martin into the bathroom, pushes him down onto his knees in his nice suit, unzips his own trousers and he's hard as a rock. "All four of us and the celebrant," he murmurs, chin tipped up, eyes closed, "Four of the loneliest men in the world."

It's long after the bleachy taste has left the back of Martin's palette, replaced by expensive Brut, that Peter slings an arm around his shoulders. "Come on. Find your suitcase, our honeymoon's in Kent."

"What's in Kent?" Martin asks, a little tipsy, leaning into him.

Peter kisses his temple. There's something hollow in the gesture, performative, but Martin can overlook that for the way it makes him feel like maybe he finally has someone all his own. "Family," Peter answers. " _The Tundra_. And Moorland House."

"That's where you grew up, right?" asks Martin, secretly pleased at the thought of what secrets he might learn of Peter there, amidst memories of his youth.

"Yeah. That's where we all grow up, us Lukases." He raises an eyebrow. "It's a beautiful old house. Never read any statements about it? Well, who knows. Maybe if you ever see your Archivist again, you'll give one of your own. Tell him all about how devoted I am to it."

Martin realizes with a surprise how long it's been since he last thought about Jon. "I think I'm done with Beholding, actually," he says.

"Knew you'd come around eventually," Peter says with a smile. Asks for his contract, and Martin doesn't ask how he knows it isn't in Elias' office, gives it over willingly, unfolding it from the tight bunch that has lived in his wallet next to his credit cards. He isn't sure if he's taking a dangerous risk by letting someone else have it, but he finds he doesn't care anymore. Peter scans and refolds it. Tucks it into his own breast pocket, over his heart.

-

"Maybe this time, once _The Tundra_ is repaired, you could take me with you?" Martin tries tentatively. 

Peter lets out a heavy sigh, and the look he gives Martin is unreadable. "C'mon, are you really going to ruin a nice evening out with this bullshit again?"

Martin plays with one of the forks. There are three. He's slowly, slowly getting used to using all of them, learning the kinds of mores and rituals of the luxuriously wealthy that Peter was simply born into. "I know I don't have any seafaring experience," he says, tone careful, words memorized from nights of going over them. "But I'd stay out of the way, in your cabin. Wouldn't it be nice to have someone to warm your bed at night?"

"We've been over this," says Peter. "I need someone onshore to take deliveries we don't want the Customs guys getting a look at. You've worked with artifacts at the Institute, yeah, you know the kind of stuff I sell to Salaesa isn't something I can trust to just anybody."

"I could find someone else," Martin says, hating how desperate his voice sounds. "I could recruit them. Tim, maybe, he hates the Archives. Or you could just, you could pick me up and drop me off from the Gravesend cove, like a stowaway, just!" He pulls in a long breath. A waiter quietly and unobtrusively tops up his water. It seems like it makes no sound at all, just like the chatter of diners seems barely there compared to the loudness of their argument. Even when Martin scrapes his knife along his plate in unhappy annoyance it doesn't properly shriek. Everything in this restaurant is hushed, muffled.

"I can't go back to Moorland House again," says Martin, something humiliating and hot building behind his eyes. "Not for another six months. Please. Please. I'll do anything. I'll give you anything you want, Peter, please. If you love me, you'll take me with you. Please."

"Ah, there it is," says Peter. He sounds satisfied, though he looks a little sad. "The begging. Sorry, Martin. This is just how it's got to be. Consequences, yeah?" He puts down his knife and fork. "Ah, hell, don't cry. We've got another couple of days yet. Come back to my hotel room. I'll show you a good time."

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warnings (contains spoilers for the fic):
> 
> \- Includes part of a canon-typical statement centering around spiders and a child with cancer.  
> \- Mentions of neurodegenerative illness.  
> \- Character has panic attacks.  
> \- Death of a parent.  
> \- Brief mention of vomit, non-sexual.  
> \- Canon-typical mind-control.  
> \- Canon-typical psychological horror focusing on loneliness.  
> \- Implication that primary pairing is an emotionally abusive relationship.  
> \- Dubcon of the manipulation sort - one character does not have all the details of the situation and might not consent if they did.  
> \- Dubcon of the BDSM sort - one character says "no" and "stop" but doesn't use their safeword.
> 
> As always, all feedback will be printed out and physically consumed to sustain me. (And if you're in the TMA corners of discord and want to chat about the Lukas family, swap dirty smut wips, and wail over Martin Blackwood, @ me and say hi!)


End file.
